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How Evaerus Blackhand Became an Unwilling Cult Leader
How Evaerus Blackhand Became an Unwilling Cult Leader Evarus stared at the man. He remembered the exact battle the other was talking about. The Forsaken, the senseless insanity of it all. He hadn’t seen combat since, and hardly planned on it. At the time the battle occurred, he had been nothing more than an average smith for a group of mercenaries. It was true that he had fought hard, until the deepest reaches of his soul had filled to the brim with the primal urge to survive, and with hate. After he recovered from his injuries, physically, he had wandered here to Larkenvale, trying to do nothing more than find a furnace to help him forge his broken soul into a stronger thing after the event. He had succeeded, and these last several months had been at peace, truly happy to see no combat, delighted to spend his days hammering away in the heat of the forge. He looked at this man now and understood, he understood this Illiv. His soul had never healed as Evarus’ had. It had festered in--- The other man lunged forward with lightning speed, a dagger in his hand making hard contact with Evarus’ chest, seeking his heart. Other patrons in the bar stood up, and Evarus fell backwards off of his stool, instinctively kicking it upwards towards his attacker’s face. Illiv battered aside the object, and stood, staring at the dagger in his hand. There was no blood on the blade. “See? You are chosen.” His once animated face betrayed no expression. His eyes now laid upon Evarus cold and reptilian. “Now I don’t know what the hell this is about, but you can take your troubles and shove em some place far from my bar!” a bearded man said from the counter. He had a large naked blade in his hands. Evarus stood up. He brushed himself off, keeping his eyes on the other man. His shirt was torn, revealing a large metal amulet beneath. It was scratched, and there was a small wound near it where the blade had slipped. Illiv sat back down on his stool and sheathed his blade. “Problems, patron? None. See this man before you is a miracle. He’s chosen by fate. He is no problem- he is a solution. Here is some gold.” He laid a hefty fee on the counter and turned back to lock gazes with Evarus. The bartender grabbed for the gold and seemed appeased. Evarus was in a state of shock. It was fortunate that he hadn’t died, both in that battle and right now. He picked his stool back up and sat at it, staring mutely at the other. “You’re insane. Why would I join your mad crusade?” “I set fire to your forge earlier today. I have considerable coin for you to build a new one. Also, I will make you a king and you will rule my armies.” Evarus’ jaw dropped. Surely this man jests. “Surely you jest!” He gazed across at the other’s calm pale face. A small smile had formed at the corners of his lips. “Surely…” Evarus began to lose hope. “Surely your destiny lies with Unquala. I invaded your home, stole your horse, and packed your belongings. I have no idea how you didn’t recognize your own horse when I rode past you earlier. I suppose we will have to find our eyes elsewhere. Are you prepared to join me tonight?” Evarus’ face changed then too. The emotion and shock fell away; he knew in his heart that this man was serious. In a way, Evarus almost felt calm about the situation. He thrived under stress. His soul was forged of a strong sort of metal. So be it. Fate chose him. Maybe he’d kill this man later. He’d stay with him for now. His attention was caught in a cool wind. Calm and focused. “Yeah. I’ve got nothing to do.” Illiv rode quietly out of the bar with Evarus. He had fallen into one of his moods upon hearing that the other accepted his offer. A part of him noted that the blacksmith had tried to ask him things several times, but his voice seemed distant as they rode. Everything seemed distant. Illiv slipped far into death’s hold and dwelled there until dawn’s light came from the horizon and wrenched him free. The surreal prison of the blurry world around him passing in darkness had dissipated, but the numb paralysis of his mind persisted as he dismounted his horse. Evarus had stopped trying to communicate with Illiv by this point, and so they moved from the road and set up a camp in silence. As the light of day began to shine down hard, Illiv retreated to the solace of the short death that many men call “sleep.” He woke up early the next day and for the first time since he had entered Larkenvale, he began to put on his mask. He cherished the cool feeling of the pains, applying them slowly and with care. He had missed them, and he smiled in the harsh warmth of the sun. He left the camp immediately afterwards to search for food. He began by searching under logs for those insects which he knew to be edible and alleviated a portion of his morning hunger with them. He took those which were not edible and placed them into the pouch at his side to use for fishing in the nearby river. It was nearly a mile long walk to the river, but it went by quickly in the hazy, distant world that he had been inhabiting since he had spoken to the smith. In short time Illiv had caught two large brook trout which he strung and then carried by the stringer back to camp. Illiv cleaned the fish quickly and started a fire with relative ease after he returned. He stared into the fire as he cooked, in love with the mesmerizing qualities of the flame. He gazed in mute awe as it spread the ashen touch of oblivion across the logs that it fed upon, focusing upon it until any thought of the fish he had been cooking was buried deep. Category:Character lore